It wasn’t
that their lives had been perfect or entirely uncomplicated for the first eight
years, but the last two years disrupted the relative peace enough that Eva felt
the need to kill her husband Peter. Life has a way of taking even the sturdiest
and most dedicated relationships and turning them inside out, and Eva and Peter
Billings were not exempt from this fate. There are times, thought Eva, when the
universal balance has been thrown so far out of whack that one must go to
extreme measures to set things right. And so her plan was formulated down to
the smallest detail.
*****
The peace in
the Billings home had already been broken with tragedy but the end of their
lives together began with the discovery of a small, delicate silk scarf, pale
gray with embroidered branches of black and leaves of scarlet. Eva Billings,
thirty-four year old wife and devastated mother, found it peeking out of the
drawer of her husband Peter’s bedside table. The past few months had found Eva
obsessively cleaning and then cleaning again, every inch of the little white
house her and Peter had bought five years before, when all the world seemed
bright and the future promising. Scrubbing and polishing brought peace to Eva’s
mind, a swirling mess of grief-driven madness. She was already fragile and near
her breaking point when the small piece of delicate fabric sent her spinning
down into the darkness that would consume her remaining sanity.
At first she
thought the scarf might be a not so well-hidden surprise for her. It wasn’t
really Peter’s style to do something like this, but she had been especially
stressed lately, knowing the headstone was to be delivered this week, and
perhaps Peter had been paying attention? Maybe he had noticed just how brightly
every surface in the house sparkled and reeked of disinfectant and had done
something nice for her. The idea, though fanciful, was certainly more appealing
than the alternative.
Gray, black,
scarlet; the colors of the elegant little scarf were the same colors as the
dress Eva had worn on their first date. Dinner and dancing at the local VFW.
They had enjoyed a flash back to the forties fundraiser night and ended their
evening with a gentle kiss at the door to Eva’s apartment. The quiet of the
evening was interrupted by the giggling of peeping roommates standing with the
door ever so slightly ajar. Eva’s quiet, thoughtful personality paired well
with the strong, confident way that Peter carried himself and over the next
nine months their relationship quickly grew and evolved into a solid base to
build a life on.
It wasn’t
long before an intimate wedding service was performed in a flowered meadow near
a local river, with only family, a few friends, and the towering redwoods as
witness. Only three months later, Eva and Peter found themselves expecting
their first child. Others thought they had rushed their relationship and were
hurrying too quickly into big life steps, but the couple was content with their
path and thoroughly in love. There were adjustments of course, as they got to
know each other more deeply and experienced the highs and lows of pregnancy,
but all seemed to be going in the right direction.
Then came
the night that Eva woke up three months later racked with agonizing abdominal
cramps and ran to the bathroom, only to let loose a flood of blood and tissue.
She screamed incessantly until Peter woke from his deep sleep and came running
to the bathroom. He found Eva crumpled on the floor, hugging the rim of
porcelain.
The first
chink in their marital armor was discovered that night. Love hadn’t left their
marriage, but a stream of tension soon permeated the air. For several months,
Eva was lost in her grief and Peter tried all that he could to bring her out of
it. His frustration grew right next to her pain. Both thought of divorce but
neither mentioned it. Finally, slowly, they found each other again. The next
year found them making new plans for the future. A move to a new neighborhood,
new friends, new activities. Eva enrolled in an art class at the local college.
She soon found it a healing balm that soothed her soul and quieted her raging
emotions. She also cleaned. Whenever her emotions began to get the better of
her, if art wasn’t quite enough, she would pull out her cleaning tote and begin
polishing or scrubbing until the unpleasant feelings subsided. Peter focused on
his career, working hard to save a down payment for a home, for what he and Eva
hoped would be a growing family. They weren’t ready to try making the family
part a reality yet, but eventually that would happen. They believed it explicitly.
Now, years
later, Eva stood in the former nursery, these days a shrine of sorts, cleaning
and then loading her dad’s old shotgun. She held it up in front of the shining mirror,
reacquainting herself with the weight of it, the feel of the wood and metal,
the tension of the trigger on her pale, slender finger. Her mirrored reflection
was surrounded by pale yellow floral wall paper with blue and pink polka dot trim.
A window behind her was adorned with ruffled white curtains. She fought the
memories of the nights she was finally able to spend in this nursery, cradling
her own loved miracle. Was it really two years ago or only days? The nights
alone; Peter had been convicted of check forgery and incarcerated just two
weeks after Sammy Marie was born. Those early weeks of sleepless nights that
she expected to share with Peter, Eva bore alone.
Months of
visiting her husband through glass was not was this new mother had signed on
for. Still she loved him. He had been her rock when they lost their unborn baby
and besides, hadn’t she meant her wedding vows? They were supposed to be a
team, in the good times and the jail times. The nights were lonely and the days
found Eva sleep deprived and overwhelmed by her unexpected single-parenthood. Family
helped as much as they could but at the end of the day, one side of the marital
bed was taken up only by a tightly swaddled, fidgety little white-skinned body.
It would have been wise to sleep while the baby slept, but those precious hours
were often spent curled up in a fuzzy blanket, rocking slowly backward and
forward with tears streaming, wondering how to pay bills and keep herself, her
baby, and her convict husband fed. There were fines to pay the mortgage on
their beloved little white gabled house. Eva couldn’t work. She hadn’t finished
college and had no marketable skills. Plus she had a brand new blue-eyed baby
that required all of her time and energy.
Money was
borrowed from family and friends. Grandparents helped cover necessary
utilities. Peter was eventually allowed out on work release and his previous
employer generously took him back. So did Eva.
The day that
Peter was paroled, his baby Sammy was eight months old and barely resembled the
infant he had left behind. His wife had lost something during his
incarceration. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes bore telling dark circles.
Her regular clothing hung awkwardly on her diminutive frame, more so than before
her pregnancy. If Peter had wondered if his crime and resulting absence had
affected his wife, this pale skeletal girl before him was his answer. He went
to bed that first night determined to revive this woman who was fading before
him. He would be a father and a husband, a provider and a protector.
He returned to work with vigor and during free
time he built a shop off of the garage which he filled with wood-working tools
and machines. He and Eva would pick out a dining table or maybe she would want
a new bookshelf. Peter would go to work in the well-lit little shop and begin
creating things that brought the smiles back to Eva’s face. Even when the
fruits of his labor came out crude and imperfect, his sweet little wife glowed
with pride. Slowly she began to again resemble the woman he had fallen in love
with and bought a house with and made a life with. That next year found the
Billings family enjoying a serenity that is rarely equaled among families who
have been through what they had. Both were truly happy and baby Sammy was
perfectly healthy and busy and growing.
Two years
later, twenty four or so months, and Eva could only try desperately to protect
her fragile mind from the pain that had been heaped upon her the last several
months. She forced herself to forget even the joy that she and Peter had been
blessed with, however briefly. Brutal memories of turning the wheel desperately
in speeding summer traffic, crunching metal and shattering glass, piercing
infantile cries from the backseat followed by devastating quiet, had been buried
in the deep recesses of her mind for survival’s sake.
She wasn’t an expert shot but what lay ahead
did not require an expert. She would be close, they would see her face and feel
her pain. When it was over, the world would again be right, orderly, the slate
clean. She knew exactly what she was doing, and had made a commitment to see it
through, right or wrong. The stout red shotgun slugs lay on the pastel pink
changing table with the white padded top, so long unused. Each one slid easily
into place. Eva took a moment to look around the room, musing involuntarily on
the past and what was supposed to be. The small sweet room was haunted with
echoes of tiny, high pitched crying. She could only shake it off and return to
her necessary errand.
After the
shotgun was loaded into Eva’s green Ford Escort, concealed with a pile of old
threadbare towels, it was time to prep the house. Walking from room to quiet room,
pouring pungent gasoline from the tarnished old can, washing away the pain, the
happiness, the sadness, and even the joy, she began step one of the plan. The master bedroom, with its
pale cream walls and mahogany furnishings was soaked first and reeked of the
strong gasoline smell; that room needed purification more than anywhere else in
the house. She couldn’t say for sure that they
had ever been in here before, but the dark corners of her imagination said it
was almost certain. Religiously cleaned surfaces were now soaked and ready for
the coming inferno. She had given her body, her soul to this man in this room
so often. She had shared her dreams and her fears. He had likely shared their
bed with an outsider. Everything must burn.
The nursery was the only room that did not end
up saturated with Eva’s efforts. Instead, a bouquet of insipid pink roses were
left gently on the frilly toddler size bed next to a yellow-haired cabbage
patch doll wearing a familiar white beaded jumper featuring Eva’s unique stitch
pattern.
The spare
bedroom next door that had served as a home studio, including every piece of
Eva’s art, her paints and spare canvases, along with the dustless living room
with the Pledge-shined country style furniture inherited from Peter’s
grandparents were ceremoniously doused. The front hallway with the faded
paisley wallpaper that they still hadn’t replaced and the small but adequate
white-tiled up and downstairs bathrooms, and finally, the open, airy
Quaker-styled kitchen were all sodden within an hour. The dark wood of
cupboards, the granite counters and all that were on them, white porcelain
cookie jar, woven basket of fruit, shiny chrome toaster; all doused liberally.
The slate tile floor, the cheery yellow curtain panels on two small,
south-facing windows, even the shiny new refrigerator Peter had bought them
last Christmas. When the pouring was mostly done, Eva dropped onto one of the
terribly uncomfortable kitchen chairs Peter had made on a whim a few years ago.
His small
shop off of the garage had seen many projects created over the past couple of
years; a crib, toy chest, kitchen table and chairs, raised grow boxes, bathroom
step stool, and finally, a small coffin. The shop would be last. For now
though, Eva would rest and enjoy one last mug of cocoa topped with Cool Whip
before saturating the chair and finally the table. The warmth of the drink and
the fumes of the gasoline-filled house lulled Eva to a state of overwhelming torpor.
Her head soon found the comfort of her folded arms resting on the dark-stained
oak table. Her consciousness was momentarily overwhelmed and rest would be
needed before carrying out the next step of her plan.
Soft, muted
rays of eventide were filtering through flimsy window shades on the far wall of
the kitchen when Eva woke from a peaceful, dreamless sleep. Still no sign of
Peter. The clock chiming seven brought with it a cloud of dismay but also a
reiteration of what must be done. Eva had determined to give Peter this one
last chance to show up and somehow make things right. Again she was disappointed.
So many dinners and nights alone had left Eva bereft of hope and terribly
lonely. Looking around the solitary kitchen now, every object in the room
seemed to taunt her knowingly. The appliances, the furniture, the dishes, they
all seemed to mock her pain with their soft scrubbed perfection. The
temperature rose in her mind and she felt the walls closing in on her mind.
Before the panic attack could set in, she picked up the nearly empty tin of
gasoline and poured the rest of it coldly over her cocoa mug, the floral
placemats she had sewn in high school home-ec, the tub of Cool Whip, the entire
table. Then the chairs. She would never be mocked again. She was done being the
fool.
She made her
way outside, stopping only momentarily to look at her little white house. The
familiar faded picket fence, the gravel driveway lined with yellow roses. Empty
planters of various sizes and shapes placed strategically along the porch and
cement steps, awaiting their new plantings. Hanging baskets of colorful early spring
flowers. The dark blue door stood out nobly against the whitewashed planks of
Eva’s home. Their home. Turning with finality, she walked briskly to the wood
shop and found the spare gas can lying just inside the door where she had
placed it the night before when Peter had again called to say he would be home
late. Dusty saws and spare blades, web-covered tables and drawers and racks and
hooks and piles of wood scraps were all dripping with pungent gasoline by the time
she was done. The empty red gas can was left on the first floor of the
unfinished doll house with the red roof and little electric lights that sat
quietly, sadly in a grimy corner of the shop.
Climbing
into her little Ford, she would not look back at that house. It was part of the
past and she was leaving that far, far behind. As she raced along the narrow
wooded roads, dusky with evening, her mind ran unwarranted over all that had
been.
The
raven-haired woman at the library, medium height with lush curly locks that
brushed her slightly plump, rounded shoulders. Eva had seen her cuddling up to
a book with Peter. He was always an avid reader. How many volumes had she, as
his wife and best friend, shared with him, regularly enjoying their own private
book club. That Tuesday though, the club had been expanded to include this
mystery woman. Eva hadn’t meant to spy on Peter. She had come to the library to
donate the last two boxes of children’s books and movies when she had heard a
familiar laugh coming from the nest of over-stuffed couches and chairs in the
secluded reading nook.
That laugh,
part of what had drawn Eva to Peter from the very beginning, again drew her
toward him, toward the corner of the library, past rows of shelves and a few
quiet patrons. The lighting had never been sufficient in the reading corner,
inadvertently creating a rather romantic atmosphere for Peter and his
well-dressed companion. Peter’s fair-skinned, amply muscular arm was wrapped
around the woman’s shoulders, his hand gently massaging her right shoulder.
There was a
time when it took no more than a brush of that hand against her own, to
reassure Eva Billings that the love she shared with Peter was lasting and
mutual; that they would rise above the statistics and the expectations of their
detractors. Now those same hands signified only lust and betrayal, broken vows
and the resulting turmoil in her life.
For months she
had seen the calls on Peter’s phone, the sappy text messages. She had noticed
the increase in his working hours and his time away from home. She had held
desperately to the irrational hope that it wasn’t as it seemed. After half a
year of only increasing distance and more blatant signs though, it was
undeniable and soon the plan began
taking shape in her troubled mind. It just wasn’t fair. She was hurt too. She
had gone through the very same tragedy as Peter, in fact even more closely, and
hadn’t turned to anyone else for comfort. Her mind refused to acknowledge the
fact that she had sought solace in her art with increasing frequency, avoiding
the sadness in Peter’s eyes. She had ignored or rejected his pleas for her
company in favor of the scrub brush and bleach. While he sat alone watching
their favorite home renovation show, she would scour the bathroom tiles till
her hands were raw from the chemicals. And so they had grown apart. Her fair
brown hair would hit the pillow alone after a long evening of splashing paint
onto canvas or ammonia into a toilet bowl. Peter would come into the room later
and quietly slide into bed beside her.
Conversations
were minimal, limited to what was necessary. Still Eva hadn’t realized the path
they were heading down. Her grief was all consuming, to the exclusion of
everyone and everything around her. Her art was her only solace and her
cleaning her only comfort. The marital decline came rapidly and was obvious to
outsiders but not to Eva or Peter. Whenever a caring friend or family member
quietly took one or the aside and asked a loving but prying question, it was
always brushed off with reassurances that they were managing and doing the best
they could with their circumstances.
*********
Small, stoic
hands steered the little green Escort south toward the deep woods where it was
expected that Peter and the other woman would be found making use of the cabin
Eva’s parents had left to her when they passed away. Finding that they had used
the cabin was the final crushing blow. The place of her happiest childhood
memories had been sullied by Peter’s tactless infidelity. And today, of all
days. Unforgiveable.
At the turn
to the cabin Eva turned off her headlights. She didn’t need them. She knew this
path backward and forward. The loose gravel, the pot holes, the rail road ties
along the edges. The weeping willow branches that brushed the roof of her car.
So familiar but no longer welcoming. She edged the car quietly along so as not
to let her presence be known too soon. Pulling up to the edge of the property,
she retrieved her shotgun from beneath the pile of towels. She parked the car
and quickly loaded her pockets with extra slugs and stuck her small revolver
into her waist band just in case things went wrong and she needed a back-up.
The shot gun
was held close to her side as she crept up to the cabin. She had left the
driver’s door open to avoid possibly shutting it too hard. Her family cabin was
small but adequate, the shaded porch adorned with potted shrubs and two old
wicker rocking chairs, faded with use but with still a random spattering of white
paint. Dusk was transitioning to evening as Eva sidled up to the front room
window. It was small, square and high, and she had to stand on her tiptoes to
peek in. Inside the house was softly lit by a plethora of candles, all shapes
and sizes but all white. Standing just as tall as she could, she was able to
see across the front room to the rustic kitchenette with its 1960’s chrome
Amana range and mustard yellow Frigidaire. There Peter sat across the small
diner style table from the other woman. His hand was grasping hers alongside
their dinner plates, his wedding band reflecting the candle light. It looked to
be the perfect romantic evening. Perfect except for the fact that Peter was
married and his forgotten wife was desperate, armed, and determined to put a
permanent end to his infidelity. Eva watched, pained, as the two diners giggled
and flirted, the legs of their chairs scraping on the worn green paisley linoleum
as they scooted just as close as they could to each other. She knew where this
was heading. It was obvious when the other woman’s foot playfully edged up
Peter’s thigh. The sight was overwhelming and Eva feared she might throw up in
revulsion. Now was her chance and she must take it or all would be lost.
She made her
way with stealth around to the side door of the cabin which led straight into
the kitchenette, staying in the planting beds rather than risking the crunch of
the gravel path. She pulled a small bottle of oil from her coat and poured it
liberally onto the ancient hinges of the door. She mentally patted herself on the back for
being so prepared. Everything was going just as she intended. Now she checked
her delicate gold watch and noted the time. She needed to wait, if possible,
for just a minute or two longer. It was vital for everything to be
synchronized. Order demanded that it must be. Counting down the minutes, then
the seconds, finally it was time and she pulled a small brass key from her
pocket gently inserted it into the lock of the door. It gave quietly and easily
and she immediately pushed the door open wide.
The faces
that met her went white with surprise and shock, followed by flashes of terror
in their features at seeing the heavy shotgun she carried. The other woman
screamed with strident panic, releasing Peter’s hand and accidentally brushing
a flaming candle to the floor. Peter began to stand. “Eva? What are you…?”
But Eva
wasn’t having it. “Sit down! Both of you! Sit down!” They obeyed immediately,
prudently. Eva would not explain, she wouldn’t give them the chance to ask
questions or offer explanations. This must be quick and deliberate. It must be
done with haste to meet the deadline. She noticed the fallen candle scorching
the edge of the dining run beneath the table. It didn’t matter. It was actually
an unexpected bonus. She just had to move quickly.
With her
hands cradling the familiar shot gun, the only friend she had in the world, any
thread of hesitation that remained in her mind, any thought of this being wrong
was broken by the pull of her recently manicured, wedding-ready finger. The
trigger gave easily and the lead pellets flew united toward their target.
At very nearly
the same time, a tiny flame, rigged on a timer, hit the thick varnish of the
dining table in Eva and Peter Billings’ little white house back in town,
sending a whoosh of heat throughout the fuel-soaked room, taking with it dishes
and silverware and all the family dinners that would never be. Neighbors soon
gathered outside, frantic, not knowing if anyone was in the house. The
cacophony of blaring sirens rang out across town, speeding through the mostly
empty evening streets toward the blazing one story house that had once been a
home. Flames leapt with ferocity from the eaves and burst from the windows. The
front door blew open and the startled, frightened neighbors moved back. Their
fear for their safety overwhelmed their natural curiosity and desire to watch
the disaster up close and personal. The fire seemed to spread unbelievably
quickly. The neighbors didn’t know of course that the building was soaked with
enough gas to fill several of their car gas tanks.
Back at the
cabin, with flames beginning to grow and spread through the small kitchen, each
of Eva’s shots hit their single mark, quickly followed by a swift, heavy blow
with the butt of the gun, and within moments it was over. Eva could only stand,
leaning wearily on the shotgun. The other woman lay nearly in pieces, sprawled
on the floor, covered in her own life blood, small bright orange flames lapping
at her pale blue evening dress. Eva stared down at the body triumphantly. This bitch
would never destroy another home. Even with smoke in her eyes, Eva was about as
happy as she had ever been. Peter sat slumped in the chair. The crack of the
barrel had left him bleeding and unconscious. It had all been so swift,
flawless except for the overturned candle. But with some quick thinking, Eva
could work that successfully into her plan.
Now for the
third and final phase of Eva’s mission. The emptiness that had threatened to
take over her spirit earlier was now completely gone. She only felt adrenaline
and excitement. And anyway, didn’t there have to be justice? Redemption? If
not, none of it made any sense. The love, pain, desire, the vows, made and
broken and lost in the haze of gun smoke. The score simply wasn’t balanced and
she had been on the losing end for far too long. The gun fire, the flames and
soon the river would all even everything out.
The flames
grew before her eyes, being fed by old dry wood and the other woman’s body. How
had they even come to this? When tragedy first struck, Eva and Peter had clung
to each other desperately and relied on each other for strength and comfort.
They were still a team. Nights were spent holding each other, sobbing together
without shame.
As days and
then weeks turned into months, each began to take a different path in the
grieving process. She went numb and he was alone with too much time to think.
Soon his evenings were being spent with old college friends, playing pool and
drinking beer at the local dive bar. He would tell Eva he was working late or
that a friend needed help. Honesty was lost between them somehow and really it
didn’t matter; she wasn’t really listening anyway. Peter rarely let his mind go
to unpleasant places anymore and that included the distance that was growing
between him and his wife.
When a dark
haired beauty had edged her way into a pool game one night, Peter hadn’t really
noticed her. His mind had been trained so long not to look anywhere but home that
at first, while all the other guys were gawking at her and pushing each other
out of the way to be by her side, Peter was chalking his pool cue and
contemplating his next shot. The new arrival however, had her aim set on Peter.
Taking only
a few precious moments, Eva left Peter amid the smoke and flame, unconscious,
and ran around to the back of the rustic cabin. At the end of a weathered brick path in the
small wooded clearing of the backyard, she threw open the door of a dilapidated
old tool shed. The wheeled dolly was where she had placed it, at the ready,
leaning against the interior door frame. Above it were bungie cords hanging from
a rusty peg. Taking both, she hurried back to the cabin, rolling the dolly
behind her. Inside the blazing cabin with smoke stinging her eyes, Eva used the
momentum from tipping Peter’s chair to position him against the rounded metal
bars of the dolly where she secured him with the colorful, stretchy bungie
cords.
The battered
metal dolly made up for Eva’s petite build. She wheeled Peter on the dolly,
just as she had practiced with bags of wheat, toward the passenger side of the
little Escort. She pushed the door wide and tipped Peter forward, with only the
bungie cords keeping him from falling in. With a quick release of tension, the
cords were free and Peter went face forward into the black upholstered bucket
seat with a groan. She saw no point in making him comfortable or securing his
safety belt. Rather, she pushed the door shut unceremoniously and then ran back
to the cabin to shut and lock the door but the raging fire kept her back. There
was no need. The unexpected flames would soon bring attention and her deeds
would be discovered. She didn’t take even a gratuitous moment to look at the
results of her handy work but instead hurried back to the car. There wasn’t
time for celebrating her success right now. She had a few miles to cover and
the next stage of her plan to complete. Time and discovery were her enemy and
so she must make haste.
After
putting her own seatbelt on securely, she started the little car and maneuvered
a wide circle out of the yard, feeling the heat radiating from the burning
cabin, and back down the unpaved path toward the main road. She kept her eyes
out for flashing lights, her ears pricked to the possibility of sirens. The
clustered towering redwoods must have muted the sounds and hidden the flames
from the main road. Within fifteen minutes she reached the log gates of the Moore
Creek Family Park, a secluded but popular gathering place for locals during the
warmer summer months. The wooden log gates were partially open, thanks to Eva
cutting the chain the night before. Slowly she edged the car forward until the
bumper pushed up against the gate, forcing it open. She drove the car along the
winding cobbled park road until she came to the river campground’s muddy
parking lot. Why they had cobbled the road and not the parking lot was always a
mystery and an annoyance. Most especially in the wet months. Most especially
now. Tall pines and redwoods surrounded the lot and amplified the late evening darkness.
Eva jumped excitedly from the car and filled her lungs with the fresh wooded
air, moist with spray from Moore Creek.
The stream
was full this year, swollen beyond capacity after a long, rainy winter. It took
time and adrenaline-fueled effort, but Eva pulled Peter, limp and unconscious,
from the car. Locks of sweaty brown hair hung over his pale face and the
occasional shiver racked his entire body. His button down silk shirt was soaked
in sweat. A rusty, battered wheel barrow was turned upside down, right where it
had been left purposely the night before, at the entrance to the Moore Creek
trailhead. The name was misleading. The last several years of abundant
precipitation had transformed the creek of old into a massive, roaring river;
dangerous in many parts. Desolate and dreary this time of year, there was
little risk of unwanted company.
Eva loaded
Peter into the wheel barrow as gently as she could manage. She still loved him,
in spite of this past year of pain and betrayal. She knew the river would wash
away the past, all of the sins, all of the hurt, all the loss and everything
that had gone wrong. Returned to the secluded location of their first kiss, and
not far from their wedding meadow, she knew that what had been lost would again
be found. With Peter laying silent, crumpled, at the muddy trailhead, she
quickly stripped off her blood-soiled clothing and grimy, sticky boots.
Transporting Peter had been messy as she had expected and shooting his
girlfriend with the powerful shotgun had left a blowback spray of blood and
brain matter over her t-shirt, jeans, jacket and running shoes. Now undressed
and barefoot, Eva walked around to the trunk of the car, lifted the lid and
pulled out the large gray dry cleaner bag, another vital, if emotional and
sentimental, part of her plan. Unzipping the bag, she saw the gleaming white
familiarity of her custom wedding gown. Seed pearls and delicate lace lay
softly in her hands as she unwillingly contemplated what she was doing. Her
hesitation was only momentary, interrupted by a whimper coming from the wheel
barrow. Peter was coming to and that could make things much more difficult. Eva
hurriedly pulled the gown from the bag, doing her best to keep it from being
soiled in the moist earth at her feet. Pulling it over her head and buttoning
the side slit closed with deft artist fingers, she couldn’t help but enjoy a
moment of pleasure at how well the gown still fit. Maybe it was just a little
bit loose in places it should have been more form-fitting, but two years of
stress-induced starvation could do that. The brightness of the satin defied the
ten years that had passed since it last hugged her body. Allowing herself one
whimsical twirl in the mud, with muck slurping between her bare toes, Eva then
directed her energy back to the task at hand.
Carrying the
bulk of the satin skirt in her hands, she hurried to Peter, who lay softly
moaning in the rusty wheelbarrow, arms and legs hanging over, head drooping at
an unnatural angle. His weight was pushing the rubber tire into the mucky earth
at the trailhead. It became immediately apparent that Eva would have to
sacrifice the perfection of her gown to accomplish her mission. Her fingers let
go and yards of crisp snow white satin met with the ooze of the dark squelchy
mud. It took precious moments for Eva to release the rubber wheel from the
suction of the thick sludge, twisting the wooden handles this way and that, with
Peter’s head swaying side to side, the tugging and pulling left a few small
slivers piercing Eva’s soft skin. Once it was free, she was able to roll it
fairly easily down the trail path, staying to the sides where there was more
foliage and grass.
At the bank
of the overflowing river, running wildly, almost ferociously over sunken
boulders in erratic eddies and whirls in the darkness, she stopped for a brief
rest and watched the dance of the water, her eyes now adjusted to the darkness.
Sticks and leaves and a variety of unidentifiable shadows flowed with the
torrent. Eva looked down at the large man laying cumbersomely in the wheel
barrow. Her Peter always had been a large man to her own petite, gentle frame. Once
upon a time his stature had assured her; she had felt secure simply by having
him near her. Lately he had only left her feeling afraid, uncertain or terribly
insecure. It seemed painfully cliché, the whiff of unfamiliar perfume, a trace
of pink sparkly lip gloss on his shirt collar, a hotel receipt in his pants
pocket. She wondered if he had even tried to hide it. Had he wanted her to
know? And if so, why? Surely he hadn’t meant to torture her. After all they had
been through together, that couldn’t be true. After all she had suffered
because of him, surely he wouldn’t have done this to her intentionally? Maybe he
was just clumsy and oblivious to how noticeable his infidelity really was. Eva
had never confronted him, she was too proud to do something like that. It was
unthinkable that she should put herself in such a vulnerable spot, open to his
spoken rejection. Or worse, for him to try apologizing and making promises to
change. She couldn’t bear either scenario and so instead she had chosen this
path, for better or worse.
With the
wheelbarrow parked securely at the bank, ripples of frothy, debris-filled water
lapping at her feet, she gripped Peter under the shoulders and began to heave.
She tried again and again and even tore the seam of one of her long satin sleeves,
but simply couldn’t get him out that way. Turning to plan b, she unceremoniously
lifted the long wooden handles up and dumped Peter onto the wet earth, the water
nearly washing over him as he rolled down toward it. Eva dropped the
wheelbarrow and hurried to sit Peter upright. He couldn’t go in alone. That
would ruin it. His head lolled to the side as she bent, leaning her chest
against him to keep him up. The water was icy cold, still a month away from
summer. The biting of the water at his feet brought Peter around. He slowly
turned his eyes toward his wife. “Eva?” His voice was faint and strained. His
face contorted in pain and confusion. “Where are we, Eva? What’s going on? Where’s
Sammy?”
Hearing that
name, that buried, perfect, innocent little name, was a knife to Eva’s already
fragile heart. Her constitution nearly failed but she roused herself and would
not be taken in by the sentiment or the pain of memories.
“We’re
renewing our wedding vows, Peter. Today is our anniversary. Did you forget?
Silly Peter, you always were bad with dates. Lucky thing, this is the last time
you will have to remember.” Eva beamed at Peter and then, before he could think
to respond, she climbed to her feet, careful of the cumbersome yards of white
satin around her. Peter nearly fell over but she leaned down and caught his
shoulders with her little hands. He looked up at her with a queer look on his
face. “Eva. That dress. You look…… really pretty, Eva.” His thoughts were
jumbled and nearly incoherent but before him was his wife in her white gown and
somehow his injured mind was taken back to the day ten years before when he had
pledged his body and soul to this woman. Had he kept those promises? Had he
made her happy like he swore to do? Things were hazy, his whole life a jumble
of mostly incoherent memories swirling in his mind. His head was pounding and
he felt trickles of warm liquid intermittently rolling down his forehead. He
blinked and tried to clear his mind and the fluid that was reaching his eyes,
but couldn’t seem to focus. He heard the sound of rushing water and an owl
hooting in the distance. Icy cold water was soaking through his patent leather
shoes and his teeth chattered uncontrollably.
“It’s time,
Peter. Everyone is waiting for us. We can’t disappoint them.” Eva pulled and
hoisted with the last of her energy and soon Peter was on his feet, trembling
and weak, leaning on her. It was slow going and Peter was in and out of
consciousness as they waded into the river. Branches and leaves swirled around
their waists. The last storm had knocked down trees, destroyed roofs, knocked
out power and left the river overflowing its banks and filled with debris. It
was easier to maneuver Peter now that the buoyancy of the water was assisting
Eva and before long they were in the middle of the river. This had always been
the shallowest length of the long, powerful tributary, yet Eva was barely able
to reach the rocky river bed with her toes.
Almost
completely submerged now in the frigid water, Peter’s entire body awoke
suddenly and he had a brief flickering spark in his brain flashing danger.
Something was off, this wasn’t right. His mind began yelling at him, Run! Flee! Get out of here! Danger! His
body couldn’t respond to the commands of his mind though. He was simply too
weak, having lost so much blood. In front of him, his wife, his loving,
dedicated wife smiled up at him. The smile was sweet but malevolent in the
shadow light. He couldn’t make out her meaning. His mind ran in circles trying
to make sense of what was happening. His legs were quickly going numb, his
teeth chattering, his whole body shivering.
Eva could
see the cold of the water taking effect, Peter would soon fade. It was time.
She recited the carefully chosen words of her wedding vow. She promised to
love, to honor, to cherish, to be loyal, devoted and sincere. She didn’t feel
the cold, the wet, the power of the river quickly pulling her and Peter further
away from the safety of the bank, taking them downstream. She was in the
wildflower meadow, they were under the bloom-wreathed arch. Her uncle, a
minister, was standing in front of them, Bible in hand. She grasped Peter’s
hands, feeling the hope and love that had surrounded that day. Surrounded by
family and close friends, her and Peter were pledging themselves to each other.
They would share their lives, their happiness, hardships, and anything else
that came their way. She had meant every word then and meant them now. It was
different of course. There would be no more hardships or trials for them. Only
peace, together, eternally. Her, Peter and their sweet Sammy girl.
The nuptial crowd
gathered around them, showering them with rose petals and bubbles. The moment
was perfect. But now Eva felt Peter straining against her grasp. She wished it
were possible to savor the sweet moment but Peter was making that impossible.
Again making her life difficult, causing her pain. The river was rising still
higher as the flow picked up speed. She wouldn’t need to do much now to seal
her vows and bring herself and her lover into eternity. She simply fell
backward, holding tight to Peter, letting the power of the river pull them in
and under. Within seconds, nothing remained but the bubbles they left behind,
which were quickly swirled into the rushing flow of water.
The night
was black with an absent moon when Peter’s numb and battered body hit into a
sodden midstream clump of branches. He was only semi-conscious but aware enough
to realize that he needed help. Now. Peter lifted his head with great effort,
no longer feeling cold. He knew he was in a dangerous place and that his body
had very little time in this state. Looking around, the river was dark, trees
were obscure foreboding towers and he had to let his eyes adjust before he
could make out shapes and even the line of the shore. With numb fingers and
toes, his breathing coming in desperate shallow gasps and an overwhelming
dizziness, Peter slowly made his way through the rapidly flowing water, heading
to the shore that he could barely make out. It seemed miles away but was really
only a few yards.
Mental
power, desperation and the primeval will to live were all that kept Peter
going. Flashes of light in front of his eyes scared him. He knew his mind was
creating them and panic began to set in. An image of Eva floated into his foggy
brain and he briefly wondered where she was. He was too far gone mentally to
think about what had transpired, what she had done to him, to them. One slow,
heavy stroke at a time, losing a little ground with one and then gaining with
another, Peter came closer and closer to shore. It was only when he had
successfully crawled through the frothing, bubbling shore water onto the bank
that his mind let go and blackness filled his vision. It wasn’t the dark of
night, but the sweet release of exhaustion.
Two teenage
lovers out for a midnight stroll made their way with a weak flashlight as their
guide along the edge of the swollen river. The boy, young and foolish, lifted
the girl by her waist, into the air, and threatened jokingly to pitch her into
the river. She screamed with delight and feigned terror. Her screams were soon
joined by cries from her boyfriend, loud and shrill. Bringing the girl close to
his lanky frame, he pulled her backward and away from what appeared to be a
dead body before them on the shore. The
young woman maintained her composure soothed her terrified boyfriend, having
caught only a quick glance of the form laying still on the dark, muddy earth.
“Joe, we
have to check. He might be alive.” Joe balked and was ready to run away but his
girlfriend, Jill, bravely pulled away from Joe, pushed her curly brown hair out
of her face, rolled up the sleeves of her navy windbreaker, and edged toward
the body. Her hiking boots sunk in the mud but she pulled free and got close to
the shadowy figure. Leaning down, her long pale tresses brushing the man’s
face, Jill felt gently for a pulse at his throat and was amazed to find a slow,
erratic beat.
“Call an
ambulance! Joe! Wake up, Joe! Call for help!” Jill jumped up, hurried to Joe’s
side and shook him vigorously. His face had gone white with shock and he seemed
unable to respond or to move. He would be no help so Jill dug in Joe’s front
jacket pocket and pulled out a small black smart phone. Within ten minutes, Joe
and Jill were surrounded by first responders, lights flashing. Joe was wrapped
in blankets and given oxygen. He remained catatonic, silent. Jill detailed
their evening’s startling adventure to the police officers on the scene. Peter
was loaded, unconscious and barely living, into an ambulance and carted quickly
away.
The
following morning, when detectives meticulously investigated the shore line up
and down the river, the small green Ford Escort was located, along with bloody
clothes, mucky boots and a rusty wheelbarrow. Further downstream, carried far
by the previous night’s raging river, detectives found a length of roughly torn,
soiled white satin, trimmed with delicate seed pearls and intricate lace.
